The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She turned and looked back and saw him lying on the ground where she’d left him. She returned slowly, taking cautious steps while her heart thrashed against her ribs. Was he already dead? Dying? Could she stab him until he stopped breathing? She took her dagger from her boot and moved closer. Tears filled her eyes and her hands shook. She had no idea it would be like this. Shooting a man with an arrow was bad enough. This was different.

  She came upon him. “Commander?”

  Perhaps God saw fit to kill him in a fall and save her the trouble.

  He didn’t answer or open his eyes.

  She crouched beside him and poked him in the side. “Cainnech?”

  She saw him open his eyes. She had a split second to leap away. But relief startled her and he caught her before she could flee.

  In the space of her next breath, he disarmed her, pulled her down, and rose up atop her. He held her wrists over her head and gazed into her eyes, at every inch of her face and smiled, just a little.

  “Ye came back.”

  “To kill you,” she let him know, staring back. She prayed he couldn’t feel her heart pounding against his.

  “Ye dinna want to kill me, lass,” he said on a low, seductive growl that made her blood boil.

  It was true! She hadn’t wanted him to be dead. She didn’t want to kill him. How could her own heart betray her this way? How could she want to kiss his succulent mouth? If she did, would it stop her from telling him that he was correct? She was a traitor.

  His breath stole across her cheek. She closed her eyes, clenching her teeth to keep from sighing with delight. His lips scored her chin, her jaw. She became more aware of his weight and dominance, making her forget her promises and her plans.

  And then, just as quickly, he bounded away.

  “I dinna know what ye are doin’ to me,” he had the audacity to say, “but I demand that ye stop it now!”

  “Are you accusing me of enticing you?” She threw back her head and laughed, not waiting for his answer. She stood up and wiped herself off. “You were the one on top of me, Commander.” She looked around for her knife or something to throw at him.

  “Then I think it best if we keep a good distance from each other.”

  “I agree. Farewell.” She pivoted in her boots and began to walk away.

  “Miss d’Argentan.”

  She stopped at the power in his voice.

  “I canna let ye go.”

  “You mean you will not,” she called out without turning. “You are the commander. You can do what you wish.”

  “And ye know the moment I free ye, ye’ll be comin’ after me.”

  She turned and quirked her mouth at him. “Not if you leave Lismoor.”

  He didn’t smile, but his gaze on her softened enough to make her heart pound. “Ye can stay here, lass,” he said, moving closer. “No one is throwin’ ye oot. The villagers will be safe, safer than before, because their land belongs to King Robert now.”

  “No!” No, it wasn’t too late! She hadn’t lost everything! She rushed toward him as he reached her and pummeled him with her fists. Surprisingly, she caught him in the jaw before he closed his arms around her. “I will not lose my home!”

  He held her while she fought against him. She didn’t want to be pressed so closely to him and not hate him as she properly should. She managed to rotate around so that her back was pressed to him. His arms, just tight enough to hold her, hadn’t budged. “I canna leave,” he breathed into her hair. “The king ordered this and sent me. He knows I am here. He knows aboot ye. If ye manage to kill me, he will send someone else. A bigger army. Ye will die, lass. Everyone will die.”

  “No!” she cried, “King Edward will not allow this!”

  “He has done nothin’ aboot Berwick. Think ye ’twill be different with Rothbury?”

  Dear God, was this truly it? Was her fight over so quickly? Was she just supposed to give up now?

  “I will harm no one,” he whispered against her ear. “Ye have my word.”

  She closed her eyes and bit her lip to keep from weeping. What if she killed him and his men and the Bruce sent more? What kind of war had she started? How long would it last?

  The commander vowed not to harm anyone and, so far, Sir Richard seemed well taken care of. In fact, she’d seen him laughing with the Scots. And…she hadn’t been treated poorly, even after she tried to kill her captor several times.

  The commander. The man who brought this all upon her, who looked at her with eyes of steel one moment and oceans of regret the next. His confidence was sure. The shelter of his presence was, she would admit, oddly comforting.

  He might be her best option, but she couldn’t give up.

  She stopped struggling and rested her head on his upper arm. “’Tis my home being taken,” she told him in a quiet voice. “My life that is going to change. I will never give up, and I will never forgive you.”

  She moved out of his embrace when he loosened his hold on her. She didn’t look at him. There was nothing more to say.

  He followed her back up the tree. They remained quiet while they traveled through the boughs and across planks until they reached the crest of a wooded hill.

  From their vantage point, they could see in every direction.

  She took the bow he offered her and an arrow with a blue ribbon secured to the tip. She nocked it and aimed.

  She would never forgive herself for bringing them back now. But even if she was able to kill these Scots, more would come.

  Defeated, she let her arrows fly, one toward the east, one toward the west, and one toward the south. When she was done, she turned to him and wiped a tear from her eye.

  They returned to the keep in silence. She wasn’t surprised to find it being searched for daggers. They hadn’t found them all, but the commander seemed a bit more at ease with her. He even left her alone with Richard in the great hall while he spoke with red-haired Amish and some of the others at a table on the far end.

  “You did what is best, my lady,” her old friend told her.

  “Did I?” she asked softly and looked at him with teary eyes. “If Matilda and Elizabeth do not die of fright, they will never forgive me when they see what I brought them back to.”

  “You cannot win this, my dear,” her knight told her—probably for the thousandth time over the last few years. When it came to fighting for Lismoor and Rothbury, Richard had never been the one to go to when she needed encouragement. He’d wanted to take her to Normandy as soon as he learned of Giles’ death.

  Normandy might be safer for her than the English border, but she was a d’Argentan and, like her brother, she would never flee from a fight.

  She looked around at the few soldiers who were lingering at the tables with their whisky. “I could have won if it ’twas just them. But he is correct. The Bruce will send more. It seems all is lost.”

  There had to be something. Something she could still do.

  The priest joined them with a friendly smile and a tankard in each of his hands. He offered one to Richard. Aleysia took the other, assuming it was for her. She took a deep drink. She shivered in her spot and squeezed her eyes shut while the fire burned. Pure Highland whisky. She thought her eyes might have just changed color.

  She coughed into her hand and looked into it for blood. There was none. She set the empty cup on the table beside them, and then held on when the room moved.

  “Fergive me, my lady,” the priest said steadying her. “The whisky wasna meant fer ye.”

  Aleysia took a moment to wait until her vision cleared. “Father, do you hear the commander’s confessions?”

  “No,” he replied, surprising her. “He doesna go to confession.”

  She raised her brow. “You are friends with a heathen?”

  The priest nodded and softened his smile. “Who else will point oot to him the goodness of God when he canna see anythin’ but his past?”

  His past? Her interest piqued, Aleysia darted her glance to where the c
ommander sat with his men. He was hard and well disciplined. He demanded obedience from his soldiers and, as far as she could tell, he had it. How many men had he killed in battle? What else had he done? What was so terrible about his past that he couldn’t see beyond it?

  “I’m sure he will tell ye aboot it if he sees fit.”

  In other words, the priest would tell her nothing else. Not that she had asked.

  She shrugged her shoulders. It made the hall spin in circles. “Everyone has a past—” she paused thinking of Normandy, “—or a future they wish they could change. He is no different.”

  “What aboot ye?” the priest asked her.

  “Future. What…ehm…what will happen to the people who live in the castle, my staff, my friends, Sir Richard and the other knights?”

  “They can stay on if they wish,” Father Timothy told her. “Cainnech doesna want to remain here. He only needs to stay until the king chooses who will permanently hold Rothbury and Lismoor in his name.”

  He’d taken her home and he didn’t even want to live in it. She felt a rush of heat wash over her and knew her blood was boiling. He told her she could stay—but with who? She would have to wed whoever it was. Robert the Bruce would be a fool not to require it.

  She looked across the cavernous hall and let her scorching glare burn into him.

  The bastard thought to marry her off! He thought she should be grateful! She hadn’t realized it when he’d first mentioned her staying even though her land had been seized by the Scots. Her choices were to leave and be married in Normandy, or stay and marry someone worse.

  She cursed herself for not killing the commander when she had the chance—many chances. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. She muttered an oath and rolled up her sleeves.

  He met her gaze and rose from his seat. His unblinking stare almost shook her to her core, but whisky fired her temper and kept her from running when he charged toward her.

  He reached her in less time than it took his men to realize what was going on. They remained looking confused, as did Sir Richard and Father Timothy, when the commander took her by the arm and pulled her away.

  “Come with me,” he growled and dragged her out of the great hall while she pounded on his arm.

  “Let me go! I will not marry him!”

  He stopped on the three small steps and spun her around to look at him. “Who? What are ye sayin’ and what d’ye mean by comin’ at me in front of the men?”

  “I did not come at you!” she argued, feeling quite dizzy. She pulled on her arm to no avail.

  “Ye were aboot to,” he corrected. “I willna have ye—”

  He stopped and easily avoided a fist to his jaw. She swung so hard she nearly fell over.

  His arm was there to catch her. He said something that sounded indulgent but she couldn’t be certain because everything went black.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cain caught her in his arms before she crumpled to the floor. “Miss?” He knelt on one knee and supported her limp body in his arms with the other. What the hell was the matter with her? Why did she appear so small and fragile in his big hands? What should he do?

  “Father!” he called out into the great hall.

  He fixed his gaze on her again. “Lass, wake up.” He gave her a slight shake.

  Where the hell was the priest?

  When she didn’t respond, he gave her cheek a soft slap, and then felt rather sick for doing it. He might be one of the most feared warriors in the kingdom, but he didn’t strike women.

  “What happened, Cainnech?”

  Thank God. Cain looked up into Father Timothy’s concerned eyes.

  “She fell faint. I attempted to awaken her to no avail.”

  He waited while his friend bent to have a careful look at her. His gaze slipped to Sir Richard standing in the doorway watching, a bit pale, remnants of anger fading from his eyes. He’d seen Cain slap her.

  “She is fine,” the priest concluded. “She is in a drunken stupor. Carry her to—”

  “A drunken what?” Cain’s voice bounced off the walls as he rose up on his feet with the lass in his arms. “Who is responsible fer this?”

  “I am afraid I am,” Father Timothy confessed meekly.

  “Ye?” Cain shouted even louder—so loud that the priest looked down to see if Miss d’Argentan was still unconscious.

  She was.

  “And ye.” Cain turned his angry glare on the knight next. “Where were ye whilst he was gettin’ her drunk?”

  Richard balked. “He was not—”

  “Cainnech, I wasna tryin’—”

  Cain was already halfway down the hall by the time they both finished what they wanted to say.

  When he reached her bedchamber, he pushed open the door and carried her inside.

  He set her on her bed and tried not to look at her overlong. It was dangerous. Distracting. For she was as beautiful in her slumber as when she was shooting him with arrows.

  She and her friends had done much and had sacrificed four years of their lives to keeping the Scots away. Now, she had to call them back to a conquered castle.

  Hell, why did he give a damn how hard it must have been for her?

  She’d told him that his arrival robbed her of her choices and, in that sense, he was a threat to her independence.

  To his surprise and dismay, he understood it all.

  She stirred up compassion and guilt in him. He didn’t want them. All he knew of them was that they caused his belly to ache and his decisions concerning her and her knight to be lenient.

  But, he thought while he returned to the door and kicked it shut, he wouldn’t let her pierce anymore of his armor.

  He hadn’t forgotten that she killed nine of his men. God only knew how long she would have gone on trying to kill him. His men had found over one hundred daggers, kitchen knives, and crudely made blades hidden throughout the keep. Hell, he couldn’t help but smile, returning to her bedside.

  He had never met anyone like her.

  Mayhap she was mad. Mayhap he was, too.

  Someone banged on the door. Cain left her side to open it.

  “Commander,” Sir Richard came barging inside with Father Timothy close behind. “’Tis not to the benefit of Miss d’Argentan to be alone in a bedchamber with you. Her future would be damned.”

  Cain knew he was correct. He hadn’t thought much of her future. Why would he? Now that he did, who was she so upset about marrying? “Verra well, but I canna trust either of ye to keep her safe, even from herself.” He knew his words struck them hard. He didn’t care. They deserved to suffer as she would suffer when she woke from her drunken stupor. “Bring William to me.”

  When neither of them moved, he turned his most lethal glare on them. “Go, or I will have ye both put away in the dungeon.”

  He watched them both hurry out. Sir Richard left the door open. Cain didn’t close it after him. He thought about asking them what they were discussing that made her so angry, but he decided to wait and ask her instead.

  He dragged a softly cushioned chair to the side of the bed and sat in it. After a moment of shifting uncomfortably, he decided that if the priest was going to sleep in here again tonight, he’d need something more comfortable.

  Defying his logic, he looked at her. She had come back for him after they had fallen from the tree. She could have run and kept on running but she came back. Hell, he liked it so much about her he found himself smiling. He’d accused her of enticing him because he’d felt lost to desire. He’d wanted to kiss her mouth, her face, touch her, breathe her, have her for one night.

  She was as close to being English as anyone could be, damn it! He sickened himself and scowled, turning his eyes away from her.

  He couldn’t change what was already in motion. Robert knew he was here whether Cain told him or not. The king knew his second in command would not fail.

  He ran his palms down his face and groaned. What the hell had he done promising he
r she could stay? She made him regret taking her home. What the hell was she doing to him, making him feel such useless things as regret, sympathy, and, God help him, fondness?

  He’d finally gone mad. He knew it would only be a matter of time, but he’d always believed it would be the things he’d seen and done that drove him over the precipice. Not a lass.

  Her vow to never forgive him tore at his guts.

  He would write to Robert again and ask the king to allow Miss d’Argentan to keep her holding in the king’s name.

  But first, he needed to get her to swear fealty to the Scottish king.

  It wouldn’t be easy.

  His gaze involuntarily softened on her hand dangling over the mattress. Palm up, her slim, seemingly delicate fingers relaxed in a beckoning position.

  He blinked away from them, remembering those same fingers wrapped around the hilt of a dagger, and pulling the string on her bow.

  He flared his nostrils, blowing out a great exhalation. What was wrong with him? He was beginning to worry. Mercy was being given where none would have been given before. He had already proven he would do much for her. His guts seemed to constantly ache. Why?

  He had desired women before. But this woman was different. She stirred the ashes.

  He shook his head and leaned back in the chair. No. He wouldn’t allow it.

  “Commander?”

  He turned his head to see William standing in the doorway with the other two.

  Where the hell was Amish? Why wasn’t he keeping an eye on Sir Richard? He was still a damned prisoner.

  “William, aye,” Cain said, rubbing his belly. “Come in. Father, take Sir Richard to Amish and then return here so that I can get on with the day.”

  This time, they knew enough not to argue.

  “Father Timothy told me about Aleysia. Is everything all right with you, Commander?” William asked when they were alone.

  “Aye,” Cain assured him, and then slipped his gaze back to her. “She vexes me.”

  “They all do,” William agreed with a shy smile.

  Cain cut him a furtive glance. “Och, what would ye know of it, lad?”

  He had never pressed William to speak of the lass he called for at night. He wished he hadn’t let the conversation get personal now. He didn’t share the intimacies of his life with the men, and he didn’t ask them to share theirs with him. He was their commander in charge of their lives, not their friend.